


Sextent

by harcourt



Series: component parts [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Past non-consensual drug use, Rape Recovery, Recovery, h/c, negotiation, past noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:32:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1526159">disintegrate upon impact</a>.</p><p>With drugs still potentially effecting Clint's system, and an unwelcome heat on the way, Steve helps make a game plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sextent

For a while, Clint does alright. Not unscathed, but handling things. Off duty still, and talking to someone at SHIELD, he spends time at the range, but not an unreasonable amount, goofs off with Tony and spars with Natasha. Hangs around with Bruce, not doing much, just watching Bruce work. Does the same with Steve, when he's working on his bike. Just hanging out.

And then he stops sleeping. 

Slams dishes around in the kitchen sink at all hours, even though Tony has robots that do most of the housework. Or Steve finds him down in the gym, working the bag, or clocking mile after mile on the treadmill. He starts to disappear to the range all day and regularly misses dinner. 

Steve's close to taking action--"Staging an intervention", Tony says--when Clint wanders in one day when Steve's sitting in the window seat sketching the city from above. The room feels open with its large windows and high ceilings, but it's sunny and warm. Steve's down to his T-shirt and still comfortable, but Clint looks like he's got layers on. 

"Hey," Steve calls, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. Most of his bruises are gone, leaving only the faintest pale green or yellowish smudges, but Clint looks tired, pale and withdrawn. He comes over, barefoot on Tony's thick carpets, and joins Steve on the window seat, pulling his feet up to sit facing Steve, his back against the window frame.

"Drawing?" Clint asks, and Steve hears _are you busy_.

Steve holds up the pad. "Pigeons. I was going to do a landscape, but there's so much _stuff_ down there." Staring at all of it is still overwhelming, sometimes. He's in awe of it and Clint grins at the wide-eyed look he can't quite keep off his face. Steve shrugs. Grins back as he settles his sketch pad back on his knee. "You need to talk?"

Clint looks out the window, and doesn't glance at Steve when he nods, but he doesn't follow it up. Steve considers his options for a few moments, then decides to take the risk, knowing Clint appreciates the straight-forward. "This have anything to do with your wandering around the kitchen at four in the morning and not leaving the range to eat?"

Now Clint _does_ glance at him, in a kind of alarm, but not really in surprise. Steve can't really decode it, and Clint doesn't give him time to, dropping his head and pretending to watch the traffic below. His eyes track something moving on the ground. "Medical won't give me suppressors," he says after a while, and shivers a little. "The. Because of the drugs." Clint reaches for the pad and Steve lets him have it, to occupy his hands. He leafs through without seeing the drawings. "They're afraid it'll fuck up my system."

It makes sense, but Steve feels an angry twist in his chest anyway. Clint needs more time to recover. Isn't ready for his body to be out of his control again, if he ever would be. Steve swallows it. Says. "Do you want Tony to hack you a prescription? Or maybe Bruce can do something?"

Clint shakes his head. "If it does make me sick, I don’t want to do that to them." Grins, briefly and without humor. "Or to me."

Steve turns to face him. Says, "What do you need?" and Clint glances up and gives him another crooked smile. It's humorless. Embarrassed. It makes Steve kind of wants to punch someone. He takes the drawing pad back as Clint brings his knees up to rest his arms across them. Steve's not sure if it's a defensive posture or just Clint getting comfortable. 

"I don't need an alpha," Clint says quickly, then frowns a little, "Or. I do, but not like _that_."

"I know," Steve says, "you're not anyone's."

Clint grins. Says, "Right," and wiggles his toes under Steve's thigh, comfortable, close, and like his feet are too cold. Steve looks at him and the layers he's wearing, two t-shirts and a sweater, at least. He takes as much of a sniff as he can without being obvious, but either Clint doesn't smell like much, or he can't catch it.

"Are you starting to cycle?" Steve asks, and Clint hesitates, then nods.

"Few days," he says, "It's coming on slow. I don't--" He takes a breath, shaky. "It's being weird."

And _that's_ the real reason Clint doesn't want to risk the drugs. He's scared, coming too soon off a brutal, traumatic heat onto one that's strange from the get-go.

"We've got you, Clint. Alright? Is that what you're asking?"

Clint says, "We?" 

Steve flips to a blank page, and says, "Whoever you choose to be there. Anyone you don't want, doesn't have to be."

Clint considers that, looking both relieved and freaked out. Maybe also like he doesn't quite believe Steve means it. Then he shrugs, brushing it off. "Nat might have already seen more of me than she wants," he says, with that smirk that means the joke has more sides than Steve can see, “but I. Anybody's fine."

It's not _I don't care_. It's _beggars can't be choosers_ , which is so un-Clint-like that Steve bops him with the sketchbook. Clint shrugs again, a smaller, more awkward gesture. "It's embarrassing to ask," He says, "I don't want anyone to think I expect--Are you taking _notes_?"

Steve waves his pencil, "Yup. If I have to pass this on to the others it should be right." Clint seems surprised, then nods. The time it's taking him to react to things troubles Steve. His subdued _quiet_ troubles Steve. "You're still okay to talk, right?"

"Do I _seem_ okay to talk?" Clint says, then, "Yeah, I still have my brains in right. Still competent to make decisions for myself." He gives Steve a thumbs-up. His smile is bitter and Steve tries to think of something he can say, but there's no way that Clint doesn't get hurt in this. Nothing he can say will change that.

He makes some divisions on the paper, but isn't sure how to fill or mark them yet. It's mostly to give his hands and eyes something to do, because Clint's fidgeting under his scrutiny and he doesn't want to make it worse. And then he feels Clint shudder and realizes he isn't fidgeting, but _shivering_.

"Sorry," Clint says, when Steve shoots him a concerned, questioning look, "Heat makes me cold," he grins a little, because it sounds stupid or at least counter-intuitive, but Steve nods.

"Rising body temperature," he says, so Clint will know he doesn't need to explain, "It'll get better." 

Clint's grin is lopsided and wry. "It depends what you consider 'better', I guess," he says, "But yeah." His face twists a little, thinking of what comes after. The conflict plays across Clint's face, pain and fear and shame--and Steve wants to _hurt_ somebody for all of it--and then he drops his head to look out the window again, to watch the street.

Steve sets his sketchbook and pencil aside. Says, "Clint," very gently, and turns a little to face him. Holds out both hands. Clint looks up. Then his eyes go from Steve's face to his hands and back again. He looks at Steve like he's grown an extra head.

"No," he says, and it's the same way he'd said it on his knees in that cell. A plea. 

"You're not mine, Clint. I know," Steve says, keeping his hands where they are. "And you don't have to do anything you don't want. I don't want to take anything from you. This is an offer." 

Clint doesn't look convinced, but eventually he shrugs and flashes a brief grin. Pulls his feet out from under Steve's leg and changes position, rolling onto his knees. It’s clearly more so he can reach than anything, but Steve has to fight to keep the surprise off his face. He'd have thought Clint would avoid that gesture the way he avoided so many others.

And then Clint stops, grin gone from his face. Steve can almost hear his heart thudding, and normally he'd offer encouragement. Praise. With Clint, he doesn't. Just waits him out, letting him sit there on his knees while he thinks about it some more. 

Then Clint moves again, shifting his weight forward, slow and cautious as a stalking cat. Like any sudden move will send him skittering away. Steve has no doubt that it would. 

Clint braces a hand on Steve's leg, using it for support as he leans closer. And then he lowers his head into Steve's hands.

"Good," Steve says, before he can stop himself.

Clint jerks back, almost escaping his grasp, but Steve tightens his grip. It's a reflex. He'd never try to trap Clint, not intentionally. Clint makes an angry sound, bringing his other hand up to pull at Steve's wrist, trying to get free and Steve loosens his hold, but doesn't release right away. Knowing Clint will run now if he does. 

"Clint, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Force of habit." And now he does let go, but Clint only lifts his head a little. Doesn't pull back when Steve makes up the distance, holding Clint's face in both hands, fingers wrapping around so he can stroke gently at the back of his neck. "Please," Steve says, "give me some...slack. In my day omegas liked that sort of thing."

It makes Clint grin, and he nods and relaxes. Drops his head again and lets Steve maneuver him closer and off-balance so he can sniff the back of Clint's neck, the dip at the angle of his jaw, the join of neck and shoulder. He has to pull Clint's clothing aside for that last, and Clint jerks a bit when he does, then relents with a quiet noise that's maybe a choked-off whimper.

"Easy," Steve murmurs. He has Clint pretty much pinned against his chest. One hand holding his head there, the other tangled in the loose knit of Clint's clothing. "Shh," Steve whispers, and presses his face to Clint's throat. Inhales again. He can smell it now, the scent of an omega coming into cycle, a scent he'd describe as _warm_ more than anything. It's a cleaner smell than last time. Or _clear_ , rather. Touched by the smell of soap and Clint instead of the sharp bite of drugs. He's fever-warm, but his skin is dry. There's no tang of sweat yet. For a second Steve gives into the spike of _omega_ and _no one else here_ and the wave of proprietary heat it sends through him. Then he reluctantly lets Clint up.

The proximity's done a number on Clint. He blinks hazily as he slowly straightens. "We still have to talk," Steve tells him, retrieving pencil and sketch pad. "Move to the couch."

Clint trails him there and they sit on opposite ends. A flimsy barrier to Clint's cycle. Steve snatches the blanket they keep draped over the back of the couch--someone is always falling asleep there--and wraps it around Clint before taking a seat.

"Tony?" Steve asks. Clint blinks at him.

"What?"

"Do you want or mind Tony being there?" He hates being this blunt, but he doesn't know how much time they have left until Clint's a mess of need.

"Tony's okay. If he wants to." Of _course_ Tony would want to be there. Steve doesn’t say so. Just labels one of his divisions as "Okay" and writes 'Tony' under that. Adds the rest of the team as Clint nods each one in.

Steve names a division "Don't" and says, "Tell me what's a no-go." Then, when Clint's silent for too long. " _Clint_."

"That," Clint says quickly, "Don't do that." Then he stops and is silent for a while. Says, quieter. "Or. You. You can. But only you."

Steve names a division "Steve" and writes in 'command voice'. 

"Maybe the doc," Clint adds, and Steve makes a note.

"You can't tie me," Clint says, and suddenly they're out of small-fry territory. Steve dutifully writes it in, but says,

"Of course not, Clint. This is to see you through. Not for us to play with you."

Clint ignores it. Pulls the blanket tighter and says, "Don't put me on my knees and leave me." 

"No. God, Clint. _No_." But he can't help but think of Clint ramped up drugs and in agony from heat, out of their reach. Suddenly being on the other end of the couch means Clint's _much_ too far away. Steve lets his breath out in a big whuff and stays put. Writes the instruction into the proper division.

"What do you want us to do about--" He lets it hang. Isn't quite sure what to call it.

"Fucking?" Clint supplies, with that quirked smile he has when he suspects--wrongly, in this case--that the modern world is shocking Steve. Then the look fades to one of troubled indecision. "I don't--" he starts, then ducks his head to watch his hands pull threads from the blankets. It's probably some painfully expensive fabric and even if Tony won't even care if it's ruined Steve twitches anyway. 

"The heat--" Clint tries again. "It will hurt if you don't." Clint's not usually that fazed by the prospect of pain, but Steve knows heat is different. Knows he has no way to understand what it's like for Clint.

"But you don't want to?" he guesses and isn't surprised that Clint shakes his head.

"I'll want to _then_ ," he says. Then, "Can we say, go for it, but stop if I say?"

Steve says, "Of course," and makes another division. Writes it in.

"I don't want to say 'no' now, and then need it," Clint explains. The edge of the blanket unravels a little. Clint snaps the thread he was pulling to stop it getting worse and makes a mock-guilty expression at Steve.

And _that_ , that's what makes it too much. Steve says, "Come here," with a grin and no command, and Clint tips towards him, landing sprawled on his belly. 

"I like that," he says and grabs for the sketchpad. Changes 'okay' to 'do' and writes in 'talk like normal people'. "I like when alphas _ask_ me." Steve pets his hair and wonders that Clint lets him, watches him add items into the divisions in neat, blocky letters. 

"I like when omegas ask me," Steve offers, even though he knows it's not the same. It's just to give Clint the option. Clint looks at him in surprise. Grins. Twists around on the couch so he's lying on his back, his head on Steve's thigh. He holds a hand up--the other is on his chest, still clutching pencil and sketch pad--and Steve drops his cheek to it without hesitation.

Clint makes a soft noise. "Huh," he says, like he's discovered something new. "I was. It was a joke." He sounds like he's accidentally broken something. Steve laughs. Clint's hand is warm against his face.

"Still cold?" he asks. 

Clint says, "Yeah. A bit," but he doesn't take his hand away. Steve catches his wrist, fingers brushing the faint ridge of scars he knows are healed but not yet faded. Someday they'll be silvery traces, but right now they're dark bracelets around Clint’s wrists. 

He presses his cheek against Clint's palm and starts to say, "We won't hurt you, Clint." or maybe, "We've got you, it's okay," but that's when Tony walks in.

"This is cozy," he says with a suspicious look, then looks closer at Clint and sniffs, obvious and without any attempt at tact. "Clint," he says in a scolding tone, like Clint's doing it on purpose. Clint tugs his hand free of Steve and drops it. 

"I'm changing this," he says to Steve, maneuvering book and pencil, but not fast enough. Tony strides over and plucks the book out of his fingers.

"Hey," Clint snaps. Tony waves a hand to shush him. Considers Steve's partitioned page.

"Do," He reads, "Tony," and raises an eyebrow. "A little presumptuous, Barton, don't you think?"

"I _said_ I was changing it. Give it back, Stark. I'm taking you off my 'Do' list." Clint makes a grab for it, but he's tangled in the blanket and in Steve and Tony dances back tut-tut-ing, out of reach before Clint makes it to a sitting position. 

He's kidding and Clint's rising to the banter, but all the ease talking has put into him is gone. Clint's all invulnerable edges again, face shuttered as he watches Tony read the page. _Stealing control_ , Steve thinks and says, "Tony," in that voice Clint objects to. It won't work on another alpha in the same way, but hopefully Tony will recognize that he's serious and listen. Tony raises an eyebrow at him, peering over the top of the book, and Steve holds his hand out for it. "Give it back, Tony."

Tony glances down at the page again, then at Steve. At Clint, and the I-don't-give-a-shit expression he's pulled on, and lets go of his need to _know everything_. He hands the book over. Says, "No fair. You're making charts without me."

Clint takes it and scans the page. He doesn't look as sure about it as he had a few minutes ago. Back to the wary doubt he'd first come to Steve with. Tony makes a snorting noise, but it's not the puff of scornful laughter it usually it is. It's softer. Fonder. Clint narrows his eyes at it.

"I can give suggestions for your 'Do' list," Tony offers, and waggles his eyebrows. His tone is anything but lecherous. Despite his ridiculousness, it’s a genuine offer. Clint grins a little, then goes quiet. The humor falling out of him.

"Don't. I won't be able to say no," he says, eyes on the page, and now Steve can definitely smell the heat on him. A low buzz that makes him itch to run his palms down Clint's sides, that makes Tony's smile a little more gentle than its usual sarcastic smirkyness. 

"No suppressants?" Tony asks, and Clint blinks a little at it. Like he thinks maybe he's done something wrong. Definitely starting to go under. He shakes his head slightly.

"Banned due to drug interference," Clint says. 

Tony's face darkens a little. "That," he says, "That's fucked up."

Clint's head drops a little and his fingers go white on the edges of the sketchbook. Steve eases it out of his grip and pulls it away. Says gently, "How are you doing, Clint?" They're going to have to be careful about corrections. Steve remembers Clint reacting badly before. Isn't sure if it's just Clint or something in his history. Something that happened _that_ day.

"Getting there," Clint says. He struggles with the blanket, like he's not sure if he wants to keep it on or get rid of it.

With a different omega, Steve might have said _take your time_ or _no hurry_ , but Clint doesn't _want_ to get there. Instead, he holds up the book and says, "If you change your mind--?"

"Only for no," Clint says, "Ignore any yes that's not on there." He doesn't raise his head, just glances at Steve, at Tony a little more hesitantly. "I'll beg," he says, and it sounds like he has to choke the words out, "I won't be able to help it."

"Don't worry, Barton," Tony says, "We promise not to listen to a word you say."


End file.
